Nightless
by MiniFruitbat
Summary: The story of a Dúnedan girl who does not go on a great adventure, predict the outcome of the war, fight, fall in love with Aragorn, or seduce any Elves. She simply... lives. POV changes with chapter. Companion to 'A Ranger's Love.'
1. Fîriel

**Nightless**

**Notes and Disclaimer:** I do not own Tolkien, and though I find these disclaimers annoying, that is my disclaimer. This is a story about a Dúnedain settlement, and all the characters are original, though they have no bearing upon the course of the books. This is a companion piece to _A Ranger's Love_ (which is under revision), but I shall be continuing this story to explain and expand upon certain things. Reviews, complaints, inquiries, and suggestions are more than welcome. I thought it would be interesting to deal with an original character who didn't get to make a huge contribution to the War, transcend a woman's normal place, or fall in love with canon characters. I think the appearance of an indeterminate village may have been influenced by _Last Yule in Halabor_, so go read that too. It was apparently a Dúnedain tradition to pick a new name for oneself at age sixteen.

* * *

Father cried that night. Báldan dropped to his knees and begged, but Father never truly forgave him. I wish he had. My mother said nothing to either of her men, but I know her mouth was grim. Parîel sobbed on the lowest step, out of pity for me rather than any remaining fear. I do not know where Raldar was. I think I slept.

Guldam Enwellîon's house was stifling, even though she had no sons to block the drafts. The old healer stocked more wood than anyone throughout the village, and the heat was oft-times unbearable. She clucked like a moulting hen, fixing blankets about her charges and gurgling songs and pounding herbs on the low table we knew so well. Baby cries accompanied new mothers as Guldam dispensed her advice and the Rangers would limp in for treatment when they returned. My bed was in the corner, a ragged quilt tacked over the window's shutters to keep the chill at bay. I always asked her to open it, but light meant nothing now. She pinched my cheek with flabby fingers and told me to wait 'til springtime.  
Báldan would not leave that place, even when our father stood in the doorway and growled how he neglected his company. My older brother blamed himself beyond what Father did. He pinned me for the healer while she poured tinctures, rocking me afterwards like our mother used to do. The potions only burned. Hope was a foolish sentiment even then. We all knew that.

He stayed with me that winter until the second snows fell upon the plain. Father had left long before, taking Raldar for his first season with the men. Báldan whispered how the Rangers looked at him when they blew through town to see their wives, some cruel, some kinder. I touched his face in reassurance, but it would not save him from his comrades.  
I never saw them. I never would. He should have been with them and I told him so, but he would shake his head, letting those soft brown curls brush noisily across his shoulders. I was learning to read by sound. He had healed long ago.

When Guldam finally relented, he would carry me through the streets, letting me walk when I thought I could stand. We could not trust my legs just yet. The deep scar was receding, but disuse had made them weak and I had not eaten much. We threw snowballs with the younger children, and when he stuffed snow into my collar I began to think that things might change.  
I was happy then. Parîel grumbled as she helped me into bed, but I know she was pleased as well. Father had paid for her apprenticeship, using her money as well as mine, and Adherhad courted her at times. I promised her I did not mind as we curled together against the loft's ache-bone cold. Our parents had saved the coin since we were born, and if it could bring my sister a respectable trade, I was glad for her. I would not let myself be useless, even if no tradeswoman would take a cripple. Báldan and my father had spent much time teaching me the wild tongues, so at least I had my wits. Guldam gave me simple tasks even when I was in her care, and my father left a store of arrows for me to fletch. The fletcher examined my work while leaning on his cane and said he'd take me if I learned to cook. His wife had died some years before and he would not have another, but his boy was always burning food. My mother threw him out. Marsden came back that evening to beg forgiveness and say that his master never meant to marry me.

I began to work between the two, though I burned myself and the food as much as Marsden did. The bandages came off my eyes, and people forgot the old hushed tones until they glimpsed the scars that still remained. Polm treated me no different than he did his skinny lad, but he was rough and crude and I may have cried at first.  
Marsden had a tougher skin. He worked at times in Formaer's smithy, pouring molds for our arrows' heads, but he was too slight to work the bellows or the anvil like I know he wished to. The rest of the time he sat with his father on our wooden bench, sharing our load and running to find the stores of glue and twine and shafts and feathers. Polm was miserable on his single leg and cursed heartily when anything had him move. I was too slow in my way about the storeroom to handle his sharp tongue.

At home when I was walking, Báldan had chastised anyone who moved a chair to a place I might not remember. He followed me around the first few days, catching me if I swerved too far and ensuring that I did not step upon the cat. I had grown up in that house, and I still remembered the familiar design, even if it all seemed larger. The village was the same; as if it had grown in that one night. Polm lent me his cane if I walked further than usual for an errand, and I could use it to find wagon ruts before I fell. Falling was always a danger. As soon as I lost my balance, I could not be sure of the map fitted in my head. Marsden eventually cut me a cane of my own, but it was thinner and better for my grip.  
I often forgot about the woods and mountains in the distance, being too preoccupied with what was directly before my feet. I stopped wearing boots as soon as the snow melted, and the slippers Báldan later brought from the city whispered where I was going. The ground would shape beneath my feet, and I could feel each curve that led to puddle or stone and thus avoid them without a staff. Báldan swore that they were blue. I had always wanted blue slippers.

Some years passed that way. I could not tell time from the sun's position or the day's length, but I learned cues from the crowds along the street and began to rise earlier with the lowing cow and our few chickens. I had Raldar's work now, so I milked Calad and stooped inside the hencoop to collect the eggs. I took them with me when I left for Polm's, and by that time the chill had broken and I would know it was light. My mother no longer worried about me, and focused her attentions on Báldan and her youngest son.  
Raldar took the name Breanor and proved an able tracker, and Báldan came home less and less. Parîel tired of waiting for her champion's thoughts to settle and married Adherhad's brother. They lived happily enough, though she sighed regretfully whenever the Ranger came to town. She named her daughter after me and I was thankful. Marsden joined the Rangers now that I could help his father without fail, and a younger boy took over our orders within the smithy. Polm coughed as much as he talked and often lamented the irony of his trade when he had lost his own leg to a poisoned arrow. Guldam learned new poisons from a traveler, and we cooked those on occasion. Adherhad came and sat at times, but my old friends whispered that he was not nearly so handsome now. Parîel had ruined him, they said. Still, I liked his company, and since he was not as welcome in the house my sister shared, he spent much time telling me about the clouds and battles and distant stars and my brother. He was one of Báldan's oldest friends, so I'm sure they had an understanding. I missed them both, for they were rarely home.

And so I learned to live where it was lightless, and did not mind it overmuch. Just as I could no longer see the sun, I could never know the darkness either, and shadows could not touch me in my nightless world.


	2. Adherhad

**Notes** Yes, you get to hear her name at last. :) Each chapter will be a different point of view, though I may repeat characters. I think the next part is to be from Breanor, and the last (and possibly most important) part shall be from Báldan. This chapter's rather short, but at least it's being updated. Still very eager for reviews and obscure comments.

* * *

In most respects, the fletcher's apprentice was like the other village girls: not very pretty, and not very clean. She had the same garb, with a scarf on her head when the weather was cold and dirt clinging to her neck and ankles. She smiled broadly and had all her teeth, but her jaw was hard and hair dismally limp. She was not much of an apprentice for she did more work than the grumbling fletcher, but she was young and gave him that purported honor.  
Only when a person drew closer could certain differences be noted. Talking to the girl was an unnerving venture, for her hands kept flying like the arrows and she forgot to meet a person's gaze. Her eyes were more than simply blind. Raised scars clung to her faint temples, and all the color had been ruined. 

I knew her brother, but my path towards her I could never trace. I spoke often with the fletcher when we came through town, but when he sniffed and farted and hobbled inside, I would stay. I don't know why I sat with her at first. Maybe it was pity, or maybe it was more like desperate hope. I loved her sister in a distant time, and from some paces back they looked alike. Parîel was a rare one, beautiful where most were not, but my brother had her and I could grudge him that. That had been my fault, truly.

I liked to hear the young girl's talk. I did not want to listen, but that was unavoidable. I just liked her voice, though it seems a foolish thing to say. She would not interrupt with the liar's tales that held the village children captive, but she would listen and beg for stories when I had none to tell. That row of houses was starved for conversation, and the silence of wretched Polm Navurnnîon must have been a tiring burden.

I brought her flowers from the fields, and laughed and called them day's eyes. She tilted her head to smile and wore them like a wreath. I left more among the feathers for her to find. It seemed the kindest thing to do. Some days she would crush them with a careless palm if I left too quietly, and then her face would crumple and I'd dare to guess a tear as she cupped a ruined blossom. She'd shake her head for the birds, however, and go about her business with a passive front. I'd bring another when I could, sometimes red, and later yellow when seasons changed.

I could do little for her in the winters, though she still had her stories and the tales of village life. I knew the characters from when I lived here, and she knew the current gossip. I would spot her fingers freezing blue and white while she fumbled with the cords, refusing to leave the bench while I was there. She let me warm them once, and I nearly kissed them for there was no chance she would feel the touch. I would bid her escape the cold, but I had no leave to enter the fletcher's house, so she would not go.  
"'Tis dark inside," she would say, and for a moment you'd believe her until the snowshine reflected in her eyes and I remembered.  
Polm eventually ushered all inside where he'd order her to find a blanket and then drape the quilt across her shoulders like a good master was required. He'd fix me with a stony stare and I would quickly leave with my regrets.

The summers were a better time for us both, though my company would stray farther North and months could pass before I slipped back for supplies. Báldan would hand me trinkets to deliver to his sister, and I would add my own and claim they were from him. I know it pained him to see her, and though silence around the campfires told much of him, I could never press my dearest friend. Fîriel was a favorite for us both, but as I felt myself drawing closer, he shied away from every trip to town. Strange thoughts began to enter my mind as I would lie awake and often troubled, and he kept my confidences in quiet check.


	3. Breanor

**Notes:** Raldan is Fîriel's younger brother. He goes by the name Breanor once he reaches age sixteen. 'Twas a Ranger tradition. A short chapter this time around, unfortunately.

* * *

My sister was a strange one, even at an early age. Our father would joke that he ought to have three sons instead of two, for his youngest daughter was as good as any boy. He caught her scrapping when I was five and whipped her soundly, and after that he left her to our mother and would only instruct her in the tongues. And so it was our brother taught us how to shoot, and our oldest sister must have learned as well. But it was Fîriel who stood behind me while I practiced and fixed my arms and ensured I knew the words before I left for my first summer. 

"You are of the lucky kind," she used to say, teasing me in whatever language she would pick that day. I used to think she knew them all. She knew no more than father, but perhaps she learned them faster.

Báldan said the land was in her blood, that she would be a Ranger if she had been born a man. But she was not and pretended that was right. He let her join them when they were close to home. I'd hear them stir at night, and Báldan would dare me not to breathe a word. If Parîel caught them she'd protest, but she still held our confidences within the loft. I stole with them when I grew older, and Báldan would show us the forest signs and things I'd use in later years. Fîriel loved it. She hiked her skirts or drowned in britches and ran through the forest like a rabbit. She was not graceful enough to be a deer.

When Parîel fought with Báldan and Father finally knew, our midnight excursions abruptly stopped. I was not so worried for I had permission to join the men at times, but our brother's vitriol was acid. He wanted Fîri as his younger brother. I was not growing fast enough.

Maybe it was better when she lost her sight, though I could never tell them that.


End file.
